Pale Rider
by Icefrosty
Summary: A trio of nameless cowboys are caught up in a war between townsfolk and outlaws. A solitary horseman follows them. One gunshot changes everything. The result is a destructive quest of vengeance of the feared Terror of Death for the life of the elusive lone horseman thought to exist only in legend. AU Alternate Universe Wild West fic.
1. Crashing Wills

**((Note: This fic is AU (Alternate Universe) to the .hack/GU series. If you're aware of the movie of the same name the title is derived from, rest assured that this, along with the setting of this story, is where the connection to it ends.))**

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Crashing Wills

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_I looked up and beheld a pale horse; his name was Death, and Hell followed behind him.  
_-Revelation 6:8

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The desolate plains ached with a sore emptiness that had shaped their existences for millions of years since the earth was formed. Dust swept the chiselled rocks, cliffs and misshapen obelisks that sprawled across the barren wasteland, drained of any particular colour, life having staunchly refused to propagate in any way, shape or form.

This empty land's yearning increased one hundred fold as a solitary figure, on horseback, made his way across its unforgiving surface, under the weight of the equally merciless desert sun. The almost tangible heat choked the air like smog.

This stranger kept on regardless, an external living force that seemed to mock his deathly surroundings, only in truth he gave them no thought whatsoever. The only thing occupying the stranger's mind was his destination, and the determination to shortly arrive there focused his entire being until, if you had been watching, you could have sworn a ghostly aura of pure resolute energy was blazing around his shape as he rode.

A short hoarse intake of breath broke the monotonous clopping of hooves on the solid terrain as the rider's ears picked up the all-too-familiar sound of screams beyond the faint horizon.

Hemmed under the unhallowed azure sky and barren pale earth, the stranger tugged at the reigns and broke into a gallop.

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Several miles away, three horsemen (or rather, two horsemen and one horsewoman) rode through the centre of the remote little town rather aptly named Deadwood, the first they had come across after many days and nights of fruitless travelling across the treacherous Great Plains. Now, having almost completely decimated their water and food supply, and their horses ready to collapse from exhaustion at any moment, the riders were more than desperate for a place to stay and relieved beyond belief to have finally discovered a town in which to find it.

Deadwood itself was a small and shabby affair, its houses aligning the main stretch of bare earth constructed entirely of wood that had seen some rough dust storms and damages in their time. Curious townsfolk had already come out to view the newcomers with expressions of one seeing something unheard of before. Indeed, the three riders were the first to pass through their small abode in many, many lonely years. Their appearance here was more than welcomed, and a little nerve-wracking.

Looking about them, the riders were perplexed to see carts, chairs and other objects thrown and broken in their path and by the sides of the path, blood spattering the dusty path, and the anxious, tear-strewn faces of the locals told them that something terrible had recently occurred here.

The nameless trio rode in arrow formation, the man leading being their leader; a large, ominous figure clad in a dark navy shirt, jeans, dark brown high-crowned hat and thick leather boots. The oldest of the three, he appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He rode with a quiet about him that was both disarming and unquestioningly authoritative. Surveying his surroundings with solemn blue eyes, which hid behind a pair of circular, orange-tinted sunglasses that flashed in the scorching midday sun. The large chestnut Walking Horse he rode upon shared its master's calm temperament, and ambled along at a slow, easy pace. In the rider's holster was a heavy calibre revolver .45 Colt Peacemaker, and slung across his back was a high-powered rifle for long-rang shots and dangerous targets such as coyotes and other dangerous elements they may (and had) come across in their travels.

He had been bestowed with the nickname 'The Rebirth' following the incident of his birth, in which he had miraculously revived after the doctors had pronounced him dead minutes before. Like his female comrade, he did not use stirrups, believing them unnecessary for control over one's horse. His fiery, younger male comrade, on the other hand, was of the opposite opinion, and kept his stirrups in regular use.

Said comrade was the youngest of the group, having just passed his nineteenth birthday. Nick-named 'The Terror of Death' (or Mr. Death) not for his kill-count (indeed, it only amounted to a mere few) but for the ravenous frenzy that overwhelmed his entire being as he blew his foes away, rearing up upon his steed and howling like a demon possessed.

In his holster was a .45 Colt magnum revolver, the same model as his mentor and leader. Riding a sleek black Mustang stallion he named Last Betrayal [2], the young man stood out markedly from his fellows. An albino by birth, his skin was noticeably pale in shade, his hair an ashen colour reminiscent of storm clouds, and his eyes smouldered crimson, devouring everything they fell upon. There was a childish stubbornness in his frown and inexperience in the way he occasionally tugged the reigns when it was completely unnecessary and struggle to keep from lagging behind. He wore the same getup as his leader, albeit in black and grey tones, and sporting a red bandana tied around his neck.

Naturally, the dark quality of his clothing caused severe exhaustion and dehydration, but the young man had far too much pride to admit to this. Instead, he bore his burdens alone, and soldiered on while fighting to keep on his horse.

Finally, there was the lovely young woman atop a palomino Quarter Horse mare, wearing sky-blue jeans, a white shirt and pink boots. Delicate and willowy in build, she was the epitome of composure and grace, chatting to her leader with familiarity expected of friends. Short sandy hair that shone silver in the sun's rays framed her soft, tapered features, and her smile turned towards the albino teenager made his cheeks flush red. She was known as the Mirage of Deceit (or Miss Deceit) for her speed both on and off her horse, and her delicate demeanour that hid an iron will, the young woman was a force to be reckoned with in her own right, also wielding the same revolver as her leader.

The trio had roamed the lands for years, searching for an item none either knew or heard of, although the young man had only joined a few months prior to their arrival in Deadwood. Their optimism, however, remained unabated, and they continued to move from town to town, searching for the unknown.

"Thank Goodness, here's the inn!" she said, beaming up at the establishment in question, stopping and dismounting along with their leader.

The young man followed suit, staggering a little and groaning as the numbness of his legs punched his tired senses with full, agonising force.

"Oh _God…!_" he whined. "I can't…I can't feel my…___legs…!"_

The young cowgirl laughed.

"Don't worry, it'll pass soon. This is your first time travelling for such a long distance with us—you've done very well despite that," she said, smiling in a way that made the teen feel giddy.

Turning their attention to their immediate surroundings, they discovered their leader had already tied up his horse outside and entered the inn. They hurried followed suit.

Inside, they were presented with chaotic wreckage. Tables and chairs around the bar area had been thrown about and smashed to bits. The bottles that would otherwise have lined the shelves behind the bar had suffered the same fate, the shards glistening in their splattered juices, wetting the dry floorboards and seeping through the grooves. Anxious men were barricading themselves behind the bar and overturned tables, loading pistols. Upon noticing the two newcomers, they all aimed their weapons at their vital points, shouting.

The two youngsters were immediately fearful for their welfare, but their leader, who had already appeased the highly-strung locals, assured them that they were no threat.

The tension passed, and the pair approached the bar, carefully avoiding the broken glass and wet patches.

The young man, bolder than the rest, was the first to speak.

"What the hell happened here?" he asked, looking around in disbelief.

"The Raiders," one muscular man responded grimly, hands busy loading his pistol.

"Who?"

"A wild gang of plunderers and thieves who've b'n roamin' these parts for the last few months, terrorisin' the people and stealin' and killin' anything they come across!"

"Their leader's a complete freak!" another man asserted. "He was blowin' people away for fun! Multi-barreled, his pistol was!"

"There've b'n twenty people killed in this last hour," another man cut in, fear evident in his darting eyes. "We reckon they've gone someplace to regroup an' come back for more! 'Least this time when they come, we'll be ready for the bastards!"

A loud cheer rang out around the bar, and the trio looked at each other, unsure of what to do. They had no intention of getting caught in the middle of a war between violent gangs and angry townspeople, and were anxious to move as far away as possible. But then, they desperately needed supplies, and even if they did move on, the likelihood of coming into contact with the aforementioned gang was a risk they were not willing to take.

So, spurred by necessity, the nameless trio decided to help the townspeople in their defence of their homes.

Loading their weapons, they joined the local men behind the bar and waited in the sweltering heat and sweat for the raiders to commence their next assault.

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The Terror of Death remembered.

_Annihilating heat and scattered thoughts, crashing to the earth. Blood in his mouth, choking him. Echoes of voices, once so loud, painfully muffled, but not gone. The ground was shaking with bangs, and everything was smashed out of place._

_A shadow swallowed him up, and a single green eye burned into his brain. A haggard, throaty sigh._

_Darkness._

_Light; a soft hand, a sunny smile._

The Mirage of Deceit had lifted him out of his nightmare, even if the nightmare had never left. She was his savior, his goddess, even if somewhere he knew her halo did not exist.

The Terror of Death feared the reality more than anything else.

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After an hour of starting and tensing at the slightest sound, the waiting group was rewarded with the sound of drumming hooves closing in.

Fingers on triggers, they readied to ambush their foes the moment they passed by.

Surely enough, the gang galloped by, shrieking and hollering as they fired randomly into the air, charging at buildings and bursting inside to devastate its occupants.

As soon as they had all passed, the defenders charged, all racing out of the inn and firing like madmen. Shots rang out through the air in a ceaseless barrage of bangs; cries of pain and shrieks of riderless horses mingled with the chaotic thundering of noise raging through the town.

The young Terror of Death and Mirage of Deceit kept on the outskirts of the fray, keeping close together and avoiding detection behind fallen barrels and the like, guns poised and straining every available sense for possible confrontation as the battle raged around them; bullets whizzing, bodies falling.

The albino threw them both sideways to avoid being crushed beneath the thundering hooves of one enemy horse that had leaped upon their hiding place. Their cover blown, they dived towards their horses, mounted, and began to shoot.

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He had arrived.

Racing forward on his steed, multi-barreled guns flashing, the stranger plunged, with a deathly howl, into the chaos.

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The Rebirth, crouching behind two large oil barrels, pondered thoughtfully as he witnessed a familiar face in the ensuing madness, and smiled.

Between the wolf and the hunter, who was really hunting whom?

Uncertainties and suspicions collide; tears are the result.

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**NOTES:**

[1] _.45 Colt Peacemaker_: that was designed for the US cavalry by Colt and adopted in 1873, and it was perhaps the most prolific pistol in the wild west. The .45 Colt remains popular with renewed interest in Cowboy Action Shooting.

[2] _Last Betrayal_: The name of Sora's Lvl. 99 Twin Blades from the .hack series.

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**Damnit I've been sucked in by the .hack universe again! _ I'm childish that way, my obsessions fluctuate quite dramatically XP No worries, I'm not going to neglect my other ongoing fics! Think of this chapter as a trial chapter-I'll see how this is received by you guys and if it's good I'll continue ^^**

**Got this awesome idea from two awesome pieces of fanart:**

art/hackWESTERN-AzureKite-Design-202156817

art/hackWESTERN-Azure-Kite-187944945


	2. The Green Eye

Chapter 2: The Green Eye

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_My heart…still locked in your memories.  
My body…not worth searching for.  
Once again, someone will be crying somewhere today,_

_Living on with my fate of cold smiles._

-Danzai no Hana _'Guilty Sky_' - Ending theme to the anime Claymore. I thought it fitted well.

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Charging through the chaotic throng of shouts, groans of dying, shots and thundering hooves, the Terror of Death and Mirage of Deceit took out their foes from right to left.

Leaping over the bodies, the young man heard the hiss of a bullet skim the flesh of his left ear as he was jerked to one side by a shove from a wild, riderless horse, and shouted over the din for his comrades, lost in the frenzy. Realising he was now alone, he frantically scanned the furious scene for any sign of them, firing shot after shot in all directions. Sweat poured down his arms, back and face, and his loose clothing sticking to his body like a second layer of skin, weighing him down. The heat and kicked-up dust had finally taken their toll on the already exhausted young rider. His consciousness began to ebb, sweat stinging his eyes, peering desperately through the pale haze. The numbers of living were dwindling fast, and he knew it would not be long before he became a prime target.

Yanking at the reigns, the Terror of Death knew he had to take cover soon or—

A shot rang out, and seemed to silence all the others that had been exploding around him. It echoed, as if far away, and pounded in his ears like a fading heartbeat.

Somehow, the young man felt compelled to turn and find the source. Doing so, his eyes beheld a body falling from its horse, as if falling through space.

Then he saw shining silver hair. As the face turned to look at him, he saw that lovely smile.

He was screaming before he'd even dismounted and started to run, stumbling over the dead bodies and throwing himself upon the earth at his love's side; the gracious, vulnerable Mirage of Deceit.

Ripping open her shirt were fresh blood was seeping through he saw two finger-sized holes bored into her untainted flesh. The Terror of Death slumped to one side and retched. Composing himself enough, he tore the red bandana from his neck and applied pressure to the wounds with both hands, screaming for help more than his dry, aching lungs could bear.

No one came. The street was now almost devoid of a living soul other than himself.

Almost.

Looking ahead; sweat-drenched, tear-soaked, bloody, the Terror of Death looked up into the face of the murderer.

A single green eye blazed, wide-open, from underneath a mess of shaggy azure hair, and alive with an all-powerful intensity that froze the young man's very bone marrow. Time and space dissolved; banished in that single, agonising gaze. Everything was all at once rendered utterly and absolutely insignificant.

In contrast, all other aspects of the murderer's appearance were utterly devoid of life. His skin was the colour of tombstones, mouth baring razor-sharp teeth in a snarl. His attire was comprised almost entirely of stitched pieces of fabric clumsily sewed together, the sleeves and trousers varying shades of purple and grey and brown. The only exceptions were his blood-red necktie, fawn-coloured sleeveless jacket, boots, gloves and Stetson hat.

He rode a speckled Appaloosa, its lower back covered in a white blanket with mismatched dark russet splotches reminiscent of its base colour. It stood motionless before the body as its rider surveyed his work with a maddening intensity.

The gun in his right hand was still smoking, his left dangling by his side, at the ready.

_Multi-barrelled guns._

With an inhuman scream the Terror of Death lunged upwards to tear the fiend apart. The horse reared up, as if to crush him beneath its lethal hooves, but turned abruptly to one side and turned tail, galloping into the bloody evening sun.

The young man made to go after him, but then remembered his fallen beauty. The blood now wet through her shirt in a huge, glaring stain, seeping onto his hands uncontrollably. She was staring at him, her beautiful hazelnut-brown orbs fluttering as consciousness faded away.

Clutching her limp white body to his chest, the Terror of Death staggered to his feet and lurched through the town, snapping his head round in all directions for any sign of aid.

"Help me!" he wailed in a strangled, raw voice he didn't recognise as his own. "Help me! Help me, God! Please dear God help me! _HELP ME!_"

The terrified townsfolk ignored his incessant howls, and gradually night fell. He had run from house to house, banged on doors; they ignored him, broken his way in; but they hid from him. He had screamed for the Rebirth, he had screamed for God, anyone, to save his love.

Under the unforgiving moon, the Terror of Death looked down at the cold body of the Mirage of Deceit, looked into those blankly staring eyes, and realised she was already dead.

Under the unforgiving moon, the Terror of Death had fallen to his knees, holding her to him, and screamed and screamed and screamed.

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The green-eyed horseman heard the despairing wails screech across the cold night winds, stopped his horse and turned to look back at the black horizon, beyond which was the devilish young man whom he knew would become his ruthless, raging pursuer.

Pulling down the front of his hat against the cutting wind, the murderer with azure hair tugged the reigns and moved onwards towards the muffled cries in the distance drawing him like a fly to blood.

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**AZURE ! KIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITE! :D**

**Aside from that development, I made a point of not giving Shino 'Mirage of Deceit' any pretty last words, or any at all for that matter. She just died. That was it. The agonisingly final and undeniable instant of death that occurs with most people minus any words of any significance is tragically absent from much of literature or any other type of media. It gives us the fairytale of what I like to call the 'perfect death', and by that I mean, a sendoff in which the dying person says farewell to whoever happens to be present, utters a final departing gesture, and dies. **

**Unfortunately, the reality is often far from the truth, and is all the more brutal as a result. Often there are people present, but the dying person is passes on not even knowing they're there beside them. Often the person dies alone without anyone present to hear their final thoughts, wishes or blessings. Such a cruel cut off point would be thus arguably ever more devastating to the bereaved (Haseo, in this case) as he/she/they are left in a psychological cycle of torture as they run through the 'what ifs' and 'maybes' and 'I should haves'. **

**Shino died in Haseo's arms without acknowledging or allowing (though not by her own fault, of course) him to voice said feelings for her. It was all over in the space of a few minutes or perhaps even seconds depending on how you interpret it, without any peace, without any resolution, without any words on either part that could have eased the tremendous sense of loss felt by the bereaved (Haseo). That was that. Nothing Haseo could ever do could fill the hole left by such a sudden and unsatisfied death of his one-sided love.**

**Make no mistake, Haseo is not going to sit on his ass and mope. He's going to bring hell to the outlands. But that'll have to wait for the next chap ;P**

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**Got this awesome idea from two awesome pieces of fanart:**

art/hackWESTERN-AzureKite-Design-202156817

art/hackWESTERN-Azure-Kite-187944945


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